Black And White Drabbles
by The Grey Coincidence
Summary: A collection of prequels, sequels and short stories centered around a ferret named Fret, his friends (if they counted as friends) and all their many adventures in the lands of Mossflower and beyond.
1. Dibbuns Don't Rhyme With Kitchens

**A/N: This was always gonna happen. I admit, sooner than I expected but that's because of the competition over at the Redwall Abbey Community Forum. This is my submission! **

**Behold, Black and White Drabbles! Where we get more of the characters who already have 200,00 (almost) words XD I have a few ideas but don't expect this to be updated too frequently. Like I said, this time it's mostly for the contest. Although if the contest becomes a monthly thing... You might just get one each month XD**

Four young creatures, barely more than dibbuns, had slunk away from fruit-picking to find themselves in the kitchen. Small and with generous layers of puppy fat they were a mouse, a squirrel, a hedgehog and a ferret.

"Let's bake dat one!" Momchillo pointed a paw at a Glorious Pink Strawberry Cheesecake. Fret felt his little ears twitch in annoyance. Of all his peers the young mouse was still the only one incapable of pronouncing the 'th' sound and thereby shedding his dibbun accent completely.

Before the ferret could give his own opinion on the chosen cake, Grollo, the Friar's son and a fat young hedgehog if ever there was one, spoke up.

"Actually you don't bake cheesecakes." His round face swelled with pride. Grollo was not the brightest of candles, but when it came to cooking... Well... Fret never wondered how he got so fat. "You see, for this recipe you mix the Silkcheese with the strawberries, and then you put it over the crushed oats and biscuits and you've got yourself a decent cake. Dad says that the hardest part of making cheesecake is actually thr decoratin-"

"Do I look like a pirate or a warrior?" Matiya, a squirrel who always seemed to be bursting with energy, emerged from behind a kitchen counter. Atop his head he wore a sieve and a pair of pans served as his breastplate. In one paw the young squirrel clutched a cooking spoon, and in the other his third wooden sword. "Because I think the helmets very piratical." He tapped the sieve with the wooden spoon. "But everything else." He indicated the breastplate. "Doesn't."

"I think you look stupid." Fret snapped and removed the sieve. "And you're forgetting nobeast knows we're here. I already told you, we're gonna make a cake for my momma, and then we'll leave and nobeast will be any the wiser. So keep your voice down and your ears up. You're supposed to be on guard duty."

"But I want to make the cake too! Rem'mber? I volunteered first."

Fret was sorely tempted to continue arguing, Matiya was a giant pain in the tail sometimes, but was interrupted by Momchillo's voice.

"Oooh! Dis one looks nice! Meadowcream and Almond Sponge!"

All four children stared at the Glorious Meadowcream, piled high over the heads of everybeast and stuffed with chopped almonds. Whipped into shape by-

"Yeah, my dad said we ran out of meadowcream." Grollo informed them. The quartet were brought back to face the miserable reality of their situation.

Today was Constance's Nameday- Fret had forgotten the exact number- and the young ferret had felt compelled to do something for her. He didn't have anything to give her (besides laundry but what kind of a gift was that!?) and so had resolved to make something for her. Of course he was no tinkerer and anything he built was made of rubbish anyways. He had already ruined one of her habits attempting to embroid it. Thankfully she had yet to notice. He had given up hope until Grollo suggested food- because of course the hedgehog could think of nothing else.

Momchillo had leapt upon the idea with unnecessary vigour, but had been useful in procuring the cookbook. Despite being the only beast present the Recorder trusted with literature of any kind, the browish-yellow mouse had still begged for nearly an hour before the Recorder relented the recipes.

Which lead the foursome to the kitchens. Matiya, bright red-furred and energetic like all squirrels, had been assigned to guarding the doorway and distracting anybeast that came into the kitchens. Grollo, Fret and Momchillo had the comparatively harder task of making a cake. Although, perhaps it was only hard because they had yet to pick one...

"Maybe den we can do..." Momchillo flipped through the pages of the book until he came upon another recipe. "Pumpkin crumble?"

Matiya pulled a face. "You know I hate pumpkin."

"But de cake's not for you." The mouse protested. Momchillo was a fan of pumpkin.

"I don't like pumpkin either." Fret felt obliged to say. The smell of cooking pumpkin was worse than that of a used bathtub. And Fret's black and white fur knew bathtubs better than anybeast.

"What about your moder? Does she like pumpkin?"

Fret paused to contemplate this. Then he growled, his ears flat against his head. "How am I supposed to know?"

Momchillo shrugged and turned the page. "Cherry cake?"

And so the suggestions came and went and each time the recipe was rejected. From Mighty Vanilla Sponges, to Mouth-Watering Pear Shortcrusts, Fret found a reason to not bake it. And when he had picked a recipe he wanted to try the others dismissed it for the most ridiculous of reasons.

"That's a wedding cake Fret."

And so Momchillo turned the last page and came upon the end of the book. "Dat'is it guys."

"So which one are we doing?" Matiya asked, emerging from a large cauldron, which he had imagined to be a ship.

"I was going to ask that." Grollo added from around a mouthful of candied hazels.

Momchillo opened and closed his mouth. "I don't know." He admitted.

"I do!" Fret snapped determinedly. Constance had raised him, and recipe or not he was going to make her a cake. Because he loved her. Hastily he squashed the soppiness away. It was really because he had to pay her to look after him! Yes, yes that was much less yucky than love. "We'll make our own cake. No recipe required."

Grollo raised a paw. "I don't shink dat's a goot idea" He swallowed his candied hazels. "Dad says we should always follow a recipe."

"Dad's not here!" Fret slammed the book shut with unnecessary force. "Besides, how hard can it really be? All we have to do is mix flour, water-"

"Strawberry fizz!" Momchillo cried, excited. "We can use it instead of water.

"Flour, stawberry fizz, greensap butter and everything sweet we can get out paws on!" Matiya cried and they all began naming their favourite sweets.

"Candied nuts!"

"Dried fruit!"

"Cherries!"

Fret rubbed his paws with glee and could not surpress a tiny cackle. "Let's begin then!" He tore a bowl off of Matiya's chest and slammed it onto the tabletop. Four stools were pushed against the cooking desk and all four stared at the empty bowl expectantly. "We'll start with flour." Fret decided.

"Dad says you should always start cooking by washing your paws and finding a clean apron." Grollo corrected, licking sugar off his paws.

Fret growled. "Fine."

All paws washed (with soap) and fresh aprons (several sizes too big) at the ready the four began searching for the flour but to no avail. There was none in the store cupboards, none in the cellars (but Matiya had brought up a small barrel of strawberry fizz) and none on any of the tabletops.

"Maybe we can use oats instead." Momchillo scratched the top of his head.

"But then it's a flapjack, not a cake!" Fret protested. "There has got to be flour somewhere here... AHA!" He pointed a claw at a cupboard high above them. "It's the only place we haven't checked yet!"

"We can't reach that." Grollo pointed out nervously. His father would not be pleased if they made a mess of his kitchens...

""Matiya can climb." Momchillo said, nodding his head vigorously. "He can reach de flour and bring it down."

The little squirrel's chest swelled with pride, and hastily removing his makeshift armour (with many a loud CLANG!) made to climb up to the cupboard. He scrambled onto the tabletop with ease, but found no way of getting further up. The wall gave no purchase, and try as he might he couldn't jump high enough to get to the handle.

"I can't do it." The squirrel shook his head mournfully.

But Momchillo, ever the clever, had already thought of a plan. "What if we stand on top of each oder and make a ladder for you?"

"How is that going to work?" Fret demanded grumpily. He was often grumpy and the inconvenient positioning of the flour was not helping his mood.

"If Grollo can hold you up, and you can hold me up, Matiya can climb on top of me and reach de flour."

Fret was about to suggest that perhaps it was safer if he stood on a stool instead of Grollo, but the hedgehog had already gotten into position, offering his spike-free (and sticky with sugar) paws as a lift. Fret clambered on and waited patiently as Momchillo pulled at his tail and nose and stepped on his snout and stomach in order to climb further up.

"Come on Matiya!" Grollo wheezed, as Momchillo assume his position precariously balanced on Fret's shoulders. The young hedgehog was beginning to sweat from the pressure. "I don't know how long I can hold this!"

"Don't worry, I'll be quick." Matiya answered with what he thought was a dashing grin but was in fact much goofier.

The squirrel clambered expertly over his friends. Grollo's stomach was practically a trampoline, Momchillo's tail, an excellent rope, Fret's snout, the greatest foothold, Momchillo's waiting paws, his goal. And when he at last reached them he could reach the cupboard with ease. Matiya threw the doors wide open and snatched at an excessively large bag of flour.

"I've got it guys!" He tugged diligently at it, determined to pull it down.

"Put your back into it!" Momchillo cheered.

"Guys!" Grollo yelled in serious panic. "G-uys I-I can't! My paws are-"

Matiya felt the ground (or rather Momchillo's paws) vanish away, leaving him dangling over the kitchen, his paws gripping at the flour bag which was slowly slipping...

Grollo had somehow fallen over, most likely due to exhaustion. Momchillo lost his grip (not that he'd had any to begin with) on Fret's shoulders and was catapulted into the kitchen sink, where he landed head-first into the soapy water and dirty dishes everybeast in the abbey loathed. As unenviable as that position was, Fret had landed on Grollo's back.

"Yowch!" The ferret hopped off promptly and bounced from footpaw to footpaw in pain. A quick glance at his backside confirmed that Grollo's needle-like quills were indeed sticking out of it. The habit he wore had offered no protection. He tore one out and winced, before his face became deformed with spiteful anger. "You have got to be the stupidest-"

"Aaaaaaah!" The flour bag and Matiya with it, came down upon the ferret like celestial justice (or rather divine humiliation). There was a cloud of white smoke and when it cleared Matiya, suddenly pale, was pulling a groggy and moaning Fret out of the mess.

"Dad... Is going to kill me..." Grollo, who's front had similarly been deformed by the sudden flour attack, was as pale as Matiya's suddenly-blanched fur.

Momchillo emerged from the sink, paused momentarily to pull a teaspoon out of his ear, and stepped back out. His habit clung tightly to him and his fur was covered with little bubbles. "Maybe... Dat wasn't such a good idea..."

"You think?" Matiya asked, grinning anyways. Not even his little buckteeth had been spared from the bombardment of crushed grains. The squirrel reached behind the still-dazed Fret and pulled the quills out in one swift, painless motion. The ferret practically sighed in relief.

"Dad is going to kill me..." Grollo repeated, eyeing the broken flour bag, Momchillo's wet footprints, Matiya and Fret who were both white as ghosts, and his own floured front.

Fret snarled, one paw still rubbing his wounded rump. _"I_ am going to kill you! You had one job Grollo! Just one!"

"Relax Fret, it's just a little flour." Matiya bopped his nose for no good reason, as he was fond of doing .and retrieved the bowl from where they'd left it on the tabletop. "And we can still use this."

"You're right." The ferret said, turning away from Grollo and forcing himself to remain calm. For his momma! "Pass the fizz!"

Momchillo did as he was bid and balanced the small barrel over the bowl. The mouse tugged and pulled at the stopper, but try as he might he could not remove it. Matiya tried next and wrestled with it for a good few minutes, until he too, gave up.

"This one's invincible!" The squirrel declared. "I'll go find some more then."

"Nah, it's fine!" Fret grunted, his claws now stuck to the wood of the barrel lid. "Nearly... There... Just... A... Bit... Mo-aaaah!"

The stopper came loose with a miniature explosion of strawberry fizz! The bubbly, bright pink liquid got him full in the face, and instead of washing the flour off joined it and drew strange patterns of pink.

"You look like the Taggerung!" Momchillo giggled, pouring the fizz into the bowl of flour while Matiya hurriedly stirred the mixture.

Fret huffed and pried the stopper free of his claws. At least he'd got the barrel opened.

When the batter, a dull pink colour and smelling strongly of strawberry, was ready, the quartet (or rather Matiya, Fret and Momchillo for Grollo was too busy worrying about how disappointed his father might be about the state of Redwall's kitchens...) scoured the kitchens clean in their search for anything with sugar in it.

Less than a minute later they returned to the tabletops, their paws laden with all sorts of delightful things.

"I think we should rip the dried fruit a bit first. Dat way it cooks evenly."

Fret did not know how the mouse had come about this information, but he had read more cookbooks than Fret so the ferret did as was suggested. His claws were excellent tools for tearing at things.

"I think we should crush the candied nuts." Matiya suggested. "That way nobeast chokes on them."

This wisdom was infallible, and the children followed it to the letter. Their teeth were practically made for crushing the ingredients and before long they had crushed the nuts and spat it all into the mixture.

Grollo looked on, horrified. As the Friar's son he was the only beast present who knew that saliva was never a good ingredient. But his friends were busy pouring sugar and honey and syrup and condensed greensap into the mixture. Carefully the three covered a pan with butter (and an unhealthy amount of dripping soap-water and ferret fur) before pouring the mixture into it and popping it into the oven. High-paws were shared by everybeast.

"I need a wash." Matiya snickered, surveying the filthiness of his sticky paws (jamming them into a honey pot had not been one of his most well thought-out moves). "Imagine if Bella Badgermum saw us now."

"She'd eat me." Fret said, very seriously. The Badgermum and he had never gotten along and now covered in flour and strawberry fizz... He was a walking, talking cupcake!

The others laughed and soon the four descended into silence.

"Is it ready yet?" Matiya asked, of the cake.

"It's been a minute." Fret snapped, exasperated.

"Oh." Once more silence returned. "What about now?"

"That was less than a minute!" Fret snapped again.

"Sorry." Matiya raised his paws in a gesture of innocence. "I just don't know how long it takes for cakes to cook."

"It depends on the cake." Said Grollo, a little crossly. "And we didn't follow a recipe so we don't know. And if my dad shows up now he'll thrash the lot of us and throw us in a bath together. We ought to clean up."

"But _we_ made the cake." Fret pointed out. "You can do the cleaning and then we all did something."

"But that's not fair!"

"Don't worry Grollo we'll help." Matiya got to his feetpaws and carried the empty bowl towards the sink. He brushed flour off his apron (and onto the floor) before hanging it back to where they had found it. Wringing his tail free of the crushed wheat the squirrel barely stiffled a yawn.

"Baking sure is tiring. I think I'll go take a nap." And so, leaving behind a trail of flourprints, the squirrel skipped out the kitchen.

"I dink I ought to get some dry clothes." Momchillo agreed, and followed the squirrel out the exit.

Fret was a little hurt to see them go so soon (just as they were beginning to have fun), but masked it well. "You can go too, if you want." He did not need to look to know that Grollo had already left. When he had come to them desiring assistance (his exact words had bee 'we only have one shot and we need to make a cake!') he'd been full of energy. But now his eyelids were beginning to droop from exhaustion.

Baking sure was tiring...

A high-pitched scream woke him up prematurely, and his eyes opened up slightly to see the Friar, a hedgehog fatter than even Grollo if that was possible, rushing to the oven, from which tremendous amounts of smoke were emerging. He threw open the door and rescued the (already black as night) cake. Batting away at the smoke, the head cook turned to find the culprit behind the irresponsible cooking and found Fret, blinking away.

For some reason he screamed again.

"What? What is it?" Fret shot dizzily to his feetpaws, stumbled and nearly fell. Why was there so much smoke? Oh... He'd forgotten the cake... His heart fell ever so slightly. All that hard work gone to waste...

The Friar stopped screaming and placed a paw on his chest. "Sweet cream, Fret! You scared me! Covered in flour like a ghost and-and this place covered in smoke and-" He caught sight of the mess and barely surpressed another scream. Paw prints everywhere, pots and pans and dishes everywhere, a broken bag of flour laying on the floor.

Fret, realising the danger he was in, made to slink away but was caught by the much larger hedgehog. Now held by the scruff he found no means of escape.

"Explain." The Friar growled, sounding rather like a volcano about to erupt.

Fret, who was terrified (would the Friar bake him? Or would boiling him be a better punishment? Weren't fetrets shaped like noodles?) and cowed into submission, spoke the truth. "I tried to make a cake. See it's my momma's birthday- an-and she always bakes me a cake so I thought I'd do the same and Matiya, Grollo and Momchillo were supposed to help but they left an-and- well..." The ferret trailed off, too scared to look the Friar in the eye. The truth had never served him well, it was unlikely to start now.

"I... See...":The hedgehog released him and turned to the charred remains of all of their work and effort. "So you need a cake?" Donning an apron in the blink of an eye and before the ferret could reply, the Friar got to work.

The vast majority of the children's work was ruined, all the candied nuts and fruit and fizz was nothing but blackened ash. Yet the Head Cook managed to carve out a small chunk of their original cake, one that- although very hot, was not burnt. Again, acting with speed both otherworldly and slightly frightening the hedgehog found a large vat of meadowcream (evidently there had been some) and spread it, layer after layer over the remains of Fret's cake. Almonds, apple slices, apricot, peach and syrup topped the dish, served beautifully on a platter.

It was a very good cake. Fret had to admit. But he would be lying if he said it was his. Not that he was a particularly honest beast... Just that it wasn't really his gift if somebeast else had made it.

"There. Give her that and many happy returns."

"Thank you." Fret turned away, the cake in paw, but found the Friar's paw around his scruff again.

"Ahem, you're not leaving me with all this mess. Help me clean up and then clean yourself up and _then_ give her the cake."

"Oh." Fret's ears drooped. Just when it had seemed to be going so well...

"You're on dish duty for the rest of the week as well." The Friar added, bluntly, as he passed the young (and now miserable) ferret a broom. "You could have burnt the whole place down. You could have hurt yourself. All that smoke won't do your lungs any favours."

"Right." Fret said, glumly beginning to sweep away Matiya's pawprints.

"As for your friends." The Friar continued, pulling out a broom of his own. "You can tell them that they're on laundry duty and henceforth banned from the kitchens. Oh, and I'll have to inform Abbot Martin about this..."

Fret had to smile despite it all. Getting into trouble was never a good thing, but at least he wasn't alone. Besides, laundry was always harder to deal with than dishes. All the underwear...

And best of all he'd made a cake. Well the Friar had. But Constance didn't need to know that. Not that he'd lie to her. But he'd have given her a cake anyways.

* * *

_Footnote: This incident was alluded to recently-ish in Black and White. Takes place much before that fic. They're all about five here- which is why Momchillo, Fret, Matiya and Grollo aren't bickering constantly. I mean they still bicker and Fret still suffers- but this time it's not serious. They're just kids XD_

_Not sure what else to say. If you have any suggestions for drabbles I'm game, just don't expect them tooooo soon. Also, because of how infrequently I will update this review responses will be on the Redwall Readership Restorers Forum in the... Black and White secrsec I suppose._


	2. Elementary My Dear Prince!

**A/N: Hello beloved readers, and behold. The second drabble! The response to your reviews are on a forum on this site called Redwall Readership Restorers (Waycaster thought of the name) just so you know. Why am I not finishing WASOR and doing a drabble? Well, the monthly forum contest I suppose... although BaW is still not getting updated until the above mentioned fic is done...  
**

**Here we have a wacky idea proposed by none other than Keldor, who helped with a lot of the lines. Waycaster and Socca Kingkiller are also responsible for all the tower names. Because I just needed one for a castle... and they gave me many... and I could not let them be wasted!**

**The theme of this contest is 'something something secret'- so... what on earth is more secretive than a missing cake? **

**Enjoy!**

Chillgrave was a castle. A big castle. Snow-topped and facing the sea, surrounded by mountains and cliffs and being beaten by salty (in more than one way perhaps) waves. Despite the noise of such waves, one could still hear the distant rumble of somebeast hungry...

High walls were made of dark stone, as if in contrast to the blanched white the Lands of Ice and Snow was so famous for. A tremendous spire stood in the center, and stretched itself far above any mountain. The Tower of the Grasping Claw it was called, although the others spirals bore a greater resemblance to claws than it did. Ishgard, Dygraf, Heavensward, the Windkeep, the Cold Peak- not to be confused with the Frozen Peak or Coldhill Keep- and finally the Darkhold. Each was shaped like the claw of a wolverine, as dark as night and as sharp as a nightmare. Their names were etched forever in history.

And Bork hated history. Short and plump, the young wolverine had just finished his lessons. He hated them too. Always long and full of boring things like murder, backstabbing and political intrigue! And always between meals! It was no doubt his father trying to stop him from snacking.

His father, Longclaw, was King of the Lands of Ice and Snow, Emperor of Mossflower, Southwards and the Western Shores- or at least that's what he wanted to be. Bork didn't know what that meant but the last time he'd asked the older wolverine had dismissed it as beyond his level of intelligence. It was just the sort of thing he'd do too... putting his lessons inbetween meals... _deliberately!_ The act of a true politician...

For a moment the young princeling was convinced he was roaring with rage, the next he thought a thunderstorm had blown in from the sea, finally he realized it was just his tummy. Which could only mean one thing...

The long and boring history lesson about why the Windkeep was called the Windkeep had lasted so long that he was already starving to death! He knew it! It _was_ his father trying to do him in! All he'd had that morning was a hazelnut cake he'd nicked from the kitchen (with cunning and subtlety worthy of a machiavellian ruler). And it hadn't even been three layers!

Quickening his pace, the prince shot off down cold corridors lined with the skulls of deadbeasts. His first order of business, when he eventually became King, would be to redecorate the dreary castle. Cookie jars made far better decorum, especially when filled with cookies! But his first order of business now was to head down to the kitchens, where the slaves were no doubt being made to cook something tasty. Which he would steal of course. Because he was hungry.

Alas, planning was not Bork's fortee, and plans seldom seemed to succeed. He turned a corner and barreled into none other than the King! His father!

Longclaw was everything Bork was not- he enjoyed reminding his son of this at every moment. He was big- even for their kind, he was fully grown, he was fit and burly and his most prominent feature was _not_ his stomach. His claws were long and sharp, though now they remained sheathed. He was also broader in the shoulder, straight-backed, intelligent, cold, cruel, and at present _not_ sprawled on the floor.

"What did I tell you about running?" Longclaw asked, placing a footpaw on his son's chest to prevent any attempts at getting up. Naturally his father wanted to lecture him.

"That it's for pheasants." Bork muttered, not meeting his eyes. He felt his father press the air out of his lungs, his majesty seemed determined to teach him a lesson.

"Peasants Bork,_ peasants, s_laves, children. Creatures beneath us _run_." Offering no respite, Longclaw leaned over so that they were nose to nose. "_They_ should be running from _us_. A prince, and especially not a king, should not run. Is. That. Understood?"

Bork did not have enough air to reply verbally, so he nodded grumpily and waited for his father to let him go. It took a while and Longclaw seemed to be contemplating something very important so Bork dared not interrupt, but finally the pressure lifted and Bork was allowed to his feetpaws.

"Now we will walk, _walk_, calmly towards the hall. It is time for lunch... I'm almost disappointed you forgot. And surprised. And there is something I wish for you to see."

Bork did not give any reply, he'd already had one scolding too many. Still, the prospect of lunch excited him greatly! And so it was with drooling muzzle and grumbling belly that he followed Longclaw to the mess hall.

Two beasts were waiting for them there. The head cook, twitching nervously. A small and incredibly fat ferret that didn't actually cook anything (except when Longclaw ordered something made on short notice, he was not the type of wolverine to punish his slaves so it was all paws on deck or a new cook). His name was Choptail. Bork had thought it was an odd name, seeing as his father rarely ordered things on short notice. So the ferret did not do much chopping... But once the head cook had been serving them breakfast...

_"An odd name, isn't it? Choptail. From what I can see, your tail has not been chopped at all." Longclaw said, an especially long claw idly fiddling with the nervous cook's tail.  
_

_"I-tt be coz I chop things sir. Er- yer majesty."_

_Longclaw nodded. "And if that feast isn't ready tonight, I'll add more meaning to your name."_

_Choptail swallowed audibly._

The other was a miniature wildcat- or cat of some kind. The Manywhispers was deliberately vague on that point. Bork did not know him well either. He was a smart creature that did stuff with his father. That was all the princeling knew. Named both for his trade in secrets and, when he went by Manywhiskers, the plethora of fur that spread over his scarred face like a spider's web.

"Greetings." Came Longclaw's voice, a deep rumble. Almost like thunder! Almost like a hungry belly!

The head cook began to shiver even more violently. The tiny wildcat grinned and waved.

"Your Clawliness! Good fortune to you!" He made a sweeping bow, his whiskers touching the floor. "I came to discuss that discussion we had earlier. And of course, a few more important subjects. The abbey down south has had a very bountiful harvest last I heard. Stuffed to the brim with vittles! Good old Cloggo's coming in a fortnight and he's got a surprise for you! Found a ferret and he thinks it's-"

"In private." Longclaw interrupted with a nod. "And later." He turned towards the cook, who seemed likely to faint. "Where is it? I ordered a cake, did I not? Or have you forgotten?"

"You didn't let me finish!" The Manywhiskers interrupted. "I came to discuss all of that an hour or so ago, but I only decided to stay because poor Choptail here has lost your cake. It went missing!"

"N-no!" Squeaked the cook, flinching from the might of Longclaw's glare. "It was the slaves. They must have eaten it! And the kitchens... the kitchens were ruined! It were them I tell you! B-b-but no needs te worry now yer viciousness. I'll discipline them right and proper, might even chop a tair up fer-"

"You will be silent or I will chop you up. I might have to anyways..." Longclaw drew a chair and sat upon it. Somehow it made him even more intimidating. "The slaves are your responsibility. As was my lunch. You have failed me on both accounts." He lounged backwards. "It's not the first time either..."

The ferret shivered as if the King's voice were a gale. "I-I-It maybe weren't the slaves!" He pointed a fat finger at Bork, who had been busy searching the empty hall for anything edible. "He's always filching from my kitchens!"

Longclaw glared coldly at the accused princeling. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I didn't do it!" Bork snapped. "If I ate a whole cake I wouldn't be hungry now!" His tummy provided a helpful complaint.

Longclaw harrumphed skeptically. "Very well... no cake..." His claws tapped at the chair's arm. "Very well Bork... no lunch for you. Manywhiskers, you are good at sniffing things out. Find me that cake or else bring me the beast responsible."

"At once your grace!"

Bork was shocked! Bork was stunned! Bork was horrified! Bork's jaws hung open. No lunch? His father _was_ trying to starve him! Their was no other explanation!

"May the princeling accompany me? I could use a sidekick."

"I don't want to be a sidebeast!"

The wildcat seemed disappointed. "Oh... just thought somebeast as talented as you might be useful when we search the kitchens..."

Kitchens? "Of course I will accompany you!" A free ticket to the kitchens? Permission to enter? It was a dream come true and of course Bork wouldn't throw something like that away!

And so the two shot out of the room, leaving Longclaw annoyed and the head cook... probably still terrified.

* * *

"The first rule of any good mystery my dear Bork, is to make it a bigger, more perfect mystery." It was painfully obvious to anybeast, and especially to one as smart as the Manywhiskers, that the young wolverine was the culprit. For one thing, the empty cake pan was as large as some beasts. Only a beast of monstrous girth (or gluttony) could've eaten it single-pawed. And Bork fit both descriptions. The princeling had also left some strands of fur amidst the crumbs (no doubt he'd attacked the delicacy muzzle-first) and even a few creamy pawprints.

This was on top of the fact that the feline had seen him exiting the kitchens licking crumbs and cream off his chops and looking immensely satisfied. Most beasts would have gone straight to his father, but the Manywhispers was not like most beasts (and had stolen a raspberry cupcake himself only minutes before so it would've been hypocritical of him to do so). Bork was the culprit and it was obvious. Too obvious. Why, anybeast with a brain could have figured that out! Which made it boring. And he _loathed_ 'boring' with a passion.

This was another one of his mental excercises. A test of his intellect. He would take this messy kitchen and all the shivering slaves inside it and fabricate a far more interesting series of events!

Bork was not sure why the small cat was laughing diabolically. Nor did he care, vermin did that a lot. And he was far more interested in having some well-earned snacks. He could've gone to his room and emptied his cookie jar but decided to stay and clear out the cabinets instead. He'd have cookies later on... and getting his paw back out of said jar was always a struggle...

"The second rule." The Manywhispers went on, bending over to sniff at a pawprint (definitely one of Bork's). "Is to find clues. So our first step." He straightened up, wrinkling his nose. "Is to figure out what type of cake we're looking for."

"Dere'scake?" Bork asked from around a mouthful of jam tarts. "Wheeeere?" Somehow he managed to swallow everything in his mouth in one gulp (an impressive feat), before continuing. "What type of cake is it?"

"That is what we're here to find out!" The cat cried. Selecting an innocent-looking crumb the Manywhiskers brought it up to his nose and sniffed. "Hmmm... hazelnut..." It would probably have been easier to ask one of the slaves huddling in the corners, but the spymaster rarely did things the easy way.

"Another hazelnut cake?" Bork had enjoyed the last one tremendously. Now there were_ two?_ It was a dream come true!

"_Another?_ So two cakes were eaten? Hmmm..."

"Who ate the other?" Bork demanded. Someone had robbed him of his cake!? The villain! The scoundrel!

"That's something I'd like to find out as well." The Manywhispers mused, leaving the young wolverine red with rage and fuming. Luckily Bork spotted a bottle of elderflower syrup nearby. It took him all of three seconds to empty the whole thing.

"Another thing I'd like to know are the ingredients of this dish..." He pointed a claw at a doddery old mouse with immense, flappy ears. "Fetch me the recipe books!" The slave hurried to do his bidding and indeed did it so quickly the miniature cat was compelled to give him a break. "Now let's see..." A claw stroked the pages, gently sliding down the list of ingredients. "Ah... honey... hmmm..." Snapping the book shut the feline turned towards the shelves. He was unsurprised to find Bork clambered precariously upon them, his muzzle deep in what seemed to be his eighth jar. "Last time I came here they were in different positions... Hmmm... and when we account for different types of honey..."

He spun on his heel. "You know what this means Bork?"

The shelves were no longer able to bear the wolverine's weight, and fell to the floor in a shower of broken jars, honey and splinters. Bork seemed unharmed and indeed stood up as if nothing had happened. "Uh-huh." He nodded at the tiny wildcat's back.

"Somebeast has tampered with the evidence!" The feline pointed a claw at a young otter who seemed to be short a few fingers (and was currently drenched in honey). "Did you see somebeast large and hairy enter these kitchens?"

The otter's eyes darted towards Bork, who was currently mowing through several platters of muffins. "Yes."

Bork had just uncovered a bag of sugar from one of the higher shelves his father (and the head cook) thought he wasn't tall enough to reach. Which was true, but Bork could be very ingenious when food was involved. He stood atop a stool on tip-paw, slowly but surely pulling the wonderful sweetness towards him.

"Hmmm... large and hairy... but certainly not Bork, right?"

The otter's eyes seemed to suggest otherwise, but slaves were too well-beaten to disagree. So he nodded.

"Thought so myself." The cat said with a grin and a wink. Turning towards a table-top he frowned, apparently deep in thought. Suddenly his paw darted forwards and snatched up a fork. Bringing it up to eye-level he examined it closely. "Ah-hah! See how this means the thief came in through the window?"

"Ummm..." Chorused the assorted slaves.

"Yup! I do!" Bork called out from behind him. The bag of sugar was slipping closer... and closer... and closer and... POOF! There was an explosion of white and the wolverine's wide-opened mouth was bombarded, not with the sweetness of sugar, but the coarse, rough taste of raw flour.

Bork spat it out at once, and desperately wiped at his tongue. Unfortunately the damage was done, his fur was as pale as a ghost's. And he would need something very nice to wash the taste away... Leaving a trail of flour-ey pawprints in his wake Bork continued his search for sugar. Instead he found a bowl of soup. Green soup... he sniffed at it apprehensively but found that the odour was not exactly foul. The taste however, was, and no sooner had he drunk it than it was spat back out. It splattered onto a corner as Bork continued to hack and cough.

"Poison was definitely involved." The Manywhispers continued to think aloud, as if inspired by all the spluttering. He glanced at the splatter of green on the wall. "Bloodshed too by the looks of it..." His eyes narrowed. A cabinet Bork had torn off it's hinges (and off the walls) greatly resembled a hanging cadaver... "I think I've got it all figured out."

* * *

"Your Majesty I have solved it!" The Manywhiskers burst back into the hall, Bork hot on his heels. Choptail the cook was serving the elder wolverine soup, but Longclaw seemed to have no interest in eating at the moment. His gaze turned cold at the sight of his flour-coated son.

"It took you far longer than I expected..."

"It was far more complicated than anyone could expect your Clawliness!"

The King hated that title whatever it was, but knew that the Manywhispers was not a cat to be trifled with. He was a valuable ally and a dangerous enemy... despite his size.

"It was poison." The feline went on, twisting one of his longer whiskers. "A plot to poison none other than you!"

Subconsciously the wolverine king leaned in closer. "Masterminded by whom?" His claws began to stretch forwards, though this was deliberate. His eyes darted to the cook, who swallowed nervously.

"Not the cook your Grace! These would be assassins... alas I do not know their names. You see the plot failed. Two cakes were made you see-"

"I only ordered one." Longclaw's glare turned back to Choptail.

Before the frightened ferret could reply the Manywhispers spoke. "These poisoners intended to poison one and eat the other. But they must have poisoned the one they ate, for me and Bork found a pair of rotting corpses hanging all corpse-like and covered in cake! Didn't we Bork?"

The younger wolverine nodded. "Yes we did father!" Well, he had been too busy eating to notice but of course the Manywhiskers had noticed something he hadn't.

Longclaw leaned back into his throne. Luck seemed to be on his side then.

"This doesn't explain the other cake however. The one they no doubt intended to steal. It too vanished! We discovered paw prints leading to the empty cake pan." The cat spread his paws out expansively. "Large ones, matching the description of your son's."

Longclaw smirked. Of course it had been Bork, he did not need some small cat to tell him.

"But then when I verified this by having him walk through some flour, _they didn't match_! Yet curiously, the slaves all admit something large and hairy was inside the kitchens." From a pocket hidden in his sleeve the Manywhispers withdrew a few strands of fur. "We even discovered suspicious amounts of hair. Nobeast alive could be shedding so much at this time of the season."

"Which means it was a deadbeast!" Cried Bork, slamming his paw onto the table.

Longclaw frowned. "If you expect me to believe-"

"Somebeast wearing an old fur coat." The Manywhispers explained. Bork looked disappointed.

"And clearly more than one beast, for who else could match that size?"

"So... several beasts involved..." The elder wolverine mulled this over. "You haven't been doing a very good job Choptail..."

"Yes your clawliness, he hasn't. At first I thought it might be a slave rebellion. Some sort of uprising!" From thin air (or so it seemed) he pulled out a fork. "When I discovered _this_!"

Longclaw's frown seemed to bury deeper into his face. "That's a fork. Kitchens have forks, or so I'm led to believe."

Choptail nodded in hasty agreement. "Th-that th-they do melord."

The Manywhiskers looked shocked. "But tis not just any fork! Why! This is the sigil of the Windowcleaner's Guild!"

"The what?" Longclaw was puzzled.

"The... what?" Choptail was confused.

"The What!" Bork was only half paying attention. He was too busy sniffing at his father's soup bowl.

"The Windowcleaner's Guild! Founded centuries ago by Lord Forkworth the Seal!"

"_Who?_" Chorused the King and his cook.

"They were tired of all the sticky pawprints on the windows! Do you know how hard it is to wash honey off of glass?"

"We don't have glass windows..." Longclaw glanced swiftly at his windows to confirm- indeed none of them were made of glass.

The Manywhispers gave an exasperated sigh. "Why do you _think_ they were angry?" He shook his whiskery head. "They made a right mess of the honey jars too! Broke all of them! After stealing all the honey too!"

Bork selfconsciously hid his sticky paws behind his back and licked at his muzzle.

The head cook looked flabbergasted, as such he did not notice that the Prince had suspciously sticky fur around the mouth... "But when I left I locked all the doors and cabinets! And the slaves were in their cells-"

"This fork was used to pick the lock! See how all but one of it's teeth are bent?"

"I don't s-" Longclaw began, only to find the fork thrust towards him.

"Look your majesty! And they re-bent it back into shape as a warning!"

"A warning? It's a _fork_." Longclaw was beginning to grow annoyed by all this nonsense.

"Exactly! The Windowcleaners revere their fork! They would not have left it all bent out of shape!" The Manywhispers took a deep and shuddering breath. "But the windowcleaners were not acting alone. They couldn't have! So large and hairy was the intruder... They came disguised as a bear, and everybeast knows that only toads dress as those."

Longclaw was growing more and more confused by the minute. And he hated being confused! Slowly but surely his hackles were rising. "I'm sorry-"

"And there was a splattering of green on the walls. One of the toads must have killed the other and hid their body somewhere."

"There are no toads in my-"

The Manywhiskers was perhaps the only beast reckless enough to push a wolverine's buttons. "Of course the toads themselves were hired by the Grandmother's Sewing Club. You see, this whole thing was a diversion! They conspired with your enemies to sew covers for all the spears!"

"Sew wha-" Choptail was grabbed by the shoulders and brought down to eye level with the miniature cat.

"Cozies! They want to sew cozies for all the spears so that they don't get cold. It would make them prettier! And somebeast might get hurt if they're sticking out of the walls all pointy like that!"

"Errr... they sound nice?"

Longclaw brought his paw to his face. "I just wanted a raspberry cupcake..."

A realization seemed to dawn upon the Manywhiskers. "Wait a moment..."

Longclaw's eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

"Er- it's that ferret we interrogated!"

"What ferret?" He growled.

"One of the ferrets was in cahoots with woodlanders! Some peaceful order living in an abbey far away if you can believe!"

"I don't believe." Longclaw was beginning to look very cross indeed!

"Well, he didn't say that until we hung him off the walls by his ankles. I don't believe it either. He made it up so we wouldn't drop him. But it gave him away anyway! For, you see, it was an allegory for-

Longclaw's patience had snapped. He felt around on the table, but found only his spoon. Snarling, he grabbed his soup bowl and hurled it at the tiny wildcat. It wasn't even hot anymore! As luck would have it, Bork had reached over to grab a pastry right at that instant, and instead of soaking the annoying cat, it hit his son!

"OUT!" Roared the King.

The drenched princeling (pastry in paw) and giggling spymaster shot out of the door as fast as thunderbolts. Choptail was so terrified he threw himself out of the window. There was no glass, but there was plenty of falling!

* * *

As soon as they were a safe distance away both Bork and the Manywhiskers slowed to a halt.

"Phew!" Said Bork, licking soup off of himself. "I thought father was going to go all angry, but all he did was give me more vittles." He promptly stuffed the pastry into his drooling maw.

"The best mystery is the one left unsolved! He'll never find out who stole his hazelnut cake."

Bork looked perplexed, swallowed his half-chewed meal and asked. "Hazelnut cake? Father had a hazelnut cake _too? _I thought this was all about that raspberry cupcake." Bork crossed his arms and fumed. "If I knew there were two cakes I'd've stolen them both!"

_Raspberry cupcake..._ The Manywhiskers thought back to the snack he himself had snuck out of the kitchen that morning and stopped in his tracks. "Wait a moment..."

Bork too stopped. "What is it? More food?_"_

Manywhiskers' face had the hint of a smile. "Oh no, it's nothing. Just another little mystery yearning to grow up."

* * *

The head cook survived the fall... somehow... It was a miracle. An equally great miracle was that none of his bones were broken! His natural padding had helped of course. Thank Vulpuz he always had second helpings!

It had been a long day but Longclaw would likely spare him when he calmed down. He could send a slave up with the meals. The wolverine would forget and the head cook wouldn't be cooked.

Still, he had listened to the Manywhisker's tale with growing alarm. Now he sped off towards the kitchens, fearing what he might find there.

He padded to a halt in front of the doors, panted a bit, took a deep breath and straightened up. Choptail opened the door and beheld the catastrophy Bork had wrought. He screamed!

Very loudly.

For a very long time.

Longclaw would kill him for certain! He would be roasted over a spit and his tail chopped up (as his name suggested)!

He slammed the door shut and shot off towards the cellars, leaving several dozen kitchen slaves confused beyond measure.

A few moments later he was curling into a barrel. Nobeast would find him here! Nobeast _could_ find him there! But he'd need vittles... and that meant sneaking into the kitchens... and if Longclaw caught him... H-hadn't the Manywhiskers mentioned a Captain? And an abbey full of food? If he could hitch a ride... Yeah! That abbey. He'd be safe there. Plenty of food... and it was warmer down south...

Thus he began plotting...

* * *

_Footnote: I wonder will the third drabble also be set in a kitchen... hmmm..._

_Not much else to say here. The Manywhispers is still a semi-mysterious character but here you can see what makes him tic. Bork is obsessed with food, but we all knew that anyways.  
_

_The name Choptail is a little nod to Keldor's fic Deserters. He has a vermin that goes by that name and I thought well... suits a chef doesn't it? We may or may not see more of him..._

_For clarity this takes place about a week or so before Clogg shows up with Whimper, as hinted by the Manywhiskers. I would say this is canon even if my writing style here (and in the other drabbles as well I feel) is a biiit more ov__er the top XD_

The Curious Incident Of The Cake In The Tea-time _was what I wanted the title to be... but FFN didn't let me use it because it was too long..._

_Enjoy!_


	3. Where, Oh Where, Did Longtongue Go?

**A/N: Drabble Number Three! Woohoo! A short one this time around, but more inter-connected into the actual fic. Takes place in the Bat Arc and explains what happened to Longtongue. Definetly a biiiiiiit darker than the previous two drabbles. Enjoy!**

The long webbed feet of a toad pattered upon the ice, as irrelevant and unheard as the last drops of a thunderstorm. Longtongue, clad in nothing but a loincloth, shivered. The Lands Of Ice and Snow were cold. Too cold for a toad.

"It wasn't supposed to be like this…" He muttered, allowing himself a brief respite. Bugs, fleas, flies and ants. His former chief had promised much and many when they headed North into the coldest part of the world. Slimegut had delivered nothing and less. "He's probably dead now…" It was barely any consolation and such knowledge did not help him in the slightest. He had hated his Chief of course, what self-respecting beast didn't? Yet they had done much together. As children they had listened with glee to their Chieftain's tales of tribal warfare and dreamed of being like the heroes of old, driving his enemies before him and burning their homes.

Thoughts of happier times brought a smile to his face, but now was not the time for memories. He had to keep moving.

Longtongue hopped forwards, his eyes darting to the side, searching for movement. The bats were after him no doubt. They'd want to kill him too. If they found him. They could see better in the thick darkness than he could. Stupid flying mice… they were probably laughing at him from every shadow and in every corner. Laughing and jeering at his panicked heartbeats. It was cold in the tunnels. Spring had come at last and even the thick ice was growing warmer. It was melting. Slowly. No doubt it would be solid again next winter. It was still strong now. Cave-ins were something he did not have to worry about. But it was wet. And slippery. Toads were not blessed with claws and a poorly-timed, desperate hop brought Longtongue's muddy brown form to the floor.

_SPLASH!_

Went the thin layer of water, it's tiny voice magnified by the depth of this tunnel. It's echoes followed shortly.

_Splash! Splash! Splash!_

It was icy cold. It laughed at him…

He and Slimegut had laughed often as youths. A pair of bullies without match! Nothing had given the young Longtongue greater joy than pressing somebeast into the murky, cold waters of their swamp.

Longtongue pulled himself up again, shivering madly and trying to suppress a sneeze. Even the slightest of achoos could spell disaster for him now.

The toad trudged on, just as quickly. Just as desperately. If he didn't find somewhere warm he was doomed. If the bats caught him he was doomed.

They had grown more confident, and expanded their territory. The unlucky woodlanders around their swamp soon found many of their belongings missing and many of their children sobbing in the mud.

_Pitter patter, pitter patter._

Both his heart and his feet were ringing in his ears. His head spun from the constant noise.

_Pitter patter, pitter patter._

His breathing was barely audible. His lungs were burning. Why was it so bloody cold?

He stopped, having reached a junction. To his right, a waterfall was roaring and water was slowly seeping from between a pair of crevices. Longtongue only noticed now that the tunnel behind him was slightly inclined.

_That's why it's so wet. Stupid waterfall._

The bats would find it harder to find him next to the roaring beast of water, but there was no hope of warmth to his right and Longtongue was shivering desperately now.

So he turned left, where all was silent.

_Pitter-pitter, patter, pitter-pitter, patter._

His heart was beating faster and faster. It was a drum of war. A bell of surrender. It was hopeless, alone and afraid. Yet his footfalls came slower and slower. They were tired. Heavy. Cold. Weak.

_I'll rest when I get to safety…_

There was no telling what the bats would do to him. He had to escape them. Avoid their talons at all costs.

For the past few seasons he had captured young ones and held them at ransom. It had been a good life. Even if the wailing of children grew irritating after a while...

Longtongue reached a staircase. Tall, large and imposing. Somebeast had built it. Long ago perhaps. Each step was big enough for a badger's feetpaw. But Longtongue was a tall toad and the going was easy, despite his exhaustion.

_Pitter-pitter-pitter, hop, pitter-pitter-pitter, hop._

His limbs were freezing and shaking and turning to lead. They were growing stiff and cold and the climb was becoming more and more difficult. Shaking like a leaf, dripping in sweat and cold, cold water, Longtongue ascended and found himself at the top of the stairs.

The damn ferret had ruined everything...

It was only then that he heard the hissing. Hundreds of tiny voices. His heart stopped. His form grew rigid. His eyes widened in panic. He screamed.

It was the worst mistake of his life.

"Look it'sssssssa frog." Came one voice, louder than all the others.

"A tassssssty frog." Chorused the rest.

His form refused to move. It was as if Longtongue was glued to the ice. He could only keep screaming as the creatures slithered forwards. There were so many of them, and each was as long as three full-grown worms. Hissing and flicking forked tongues in his direction they approached.

It was only when they were upon him, their cold forms tightening around his neck and arms, that he could move again. Longtongue teetered backwards, thrashing with all the strength he had left. He came to the edge of the step, trying his hardest to throw off the living ropes tying themselves around him. Their fangs tore deep into his flesh. As sharp as pins, as cold as iron. His screaming stopped. A pair of newborn snakes had latched tightly around his throat and were squeezing with all the muscle in their forms. Their grip was strong and icy.

The tall, brown toad teetered over the edge with a final gurgle. A cry for mercy. Longtongue's many crimes carried him down the massive, crudely-made stairs.

_Crack!_

_Crack!_

_Pitter-pitter-pitter-pitter._

_Crack!_

His heart beat wildly against his chest, till with a final _CRACK!_ It slowed and stopped abruptly.

The only sound a passerby would hear, a hundred baby snakes hissing at their first kill, warned all beasts to stay clear.


	4. To Build A Snowbeast

One frosty morning in the dead of winter, a young ferret lay upon a large bed. It was icy cold, even within the walls of Chillgrave. There was not much firewood to be had this far North, and most of it was used for the kitchens. Fret did not doubt that the King, a wolverine by the name of Longclaw, kept his chambers well-heated, but his own dismal little room was high in the air and uncared for. At present he was fast asleep, his tail, his paws and the end of his muzzle all sticking out of a thick, fluffy blanket. He tossed and turned, dreaming of a strange house with red walls, food that was hot and filling and made one feel warm and content. He dreamed of a grumpy ferret, made to shovel snow off a path while woodlander children watched and laughed.

While Fret, or rather Whimper, as he believed himself to be called, enjoyed his morning naps (it was not like he had much else to do these days), Bork despised them.

A young wolverine, not yet fully grown, yet still taller and wider than most beasts (and especially his little friend who was ever so slightly on the runty side), Bork enjoyed spending his mornings in various ways that were not limited to sleeping. If he were hungry he would raid the kitchens, if he wanted to be chased by guards he'd raid the kitchens (the guards had long since stopped chasing him, however, for Bork had outgrown the vast majority of them), if he wanted to bother the cook he'd raid the kitchens and if he wanted to do anything other than eating and lounging about in his room, he'd drag Whimper along and raid the kitchens because doing anything else alone was boring.

Today Bork wanted to build a snowbeast! Stubborn as he was nobeast could talk him out of it even if they tried, not that many beasts bothered. A fresh layer of snow coated the grounds, for it was always snowing in the Lands of Ice and Snow and the wolverine prince was determined to put the climate to good use. Seeing as snow could not be eaten (his father delighted in reminding him of this) the only thing left to do with it was to sculpt.

"Whimper!" Bork did not bother to knock, as far as he was concerned the castle was his father's, which meant he could go anywhere he liked. Anyways, it was not like the ferret could protest to him letting himself in. Whimper was fast asleep beneath his blankets, snoring softly and sweetly.

Most woodlanders and some few vermin would have left and let the kit sleep. But most vermin would have thought of a cruel and unusual way to wake him up and Bork was, in that respect, like most vermin.

Now was not the time to be sleeping anyways.

The bed creaked and groaned in protest as Bork clambered on (he was used to furniture breaking beneath him and had learned to ignore the warning signs). "Whimper." He whispered. "Whiiiiiimper." The wolverine failed to suppress a giggle, Fret was so dead to the world Bork could have gotten away with anything. "Sleeeeepyhead!" He cackled, as the possibilities rushed through his mind. "Wakie wakie! Whim-per! Whim-per! Whim-per!"

All of a sudden Whimper was wrenched away from the sweet, strange dreams of warmth and comfort and plunged into the cold reality. A reality where he was hurtling through the air with a cry of alarm. The blanket flapped around him, blinding him as he flew. It lifted for just a moment, enough for him to catch a glimpse of the wall in front of him, before he came tumbling down. He landed on the familiar softness of his bed, but was quickly thrown up again. What was going on? The ferret kicked and screamed and clawed. He fell on his rump, his nose, his front, and each time he was thrown up again without respite.

His own blanket worked against him, blinding him, entangling him. He caught only glimpses of a pair of large feetpaw, and saw only the mattress as he was tossed about again and again.

But he had other senses. Bork was rather pungent and his scent was familiar. As was the sound of his laughter.

Bork was bouncing on the bed. Being the larger of the two by a wide margin, every time he came down upon the mattress the smaller vermin was sent skywards.

"Bork!" The ferret snapped, fighting tooth and claw against thin air in an attempt to regain his balance. The blanket had slipped off, but that did not make anything easier. All it meant was that Whimper was now fully aware of who was responsible for his plight. "This is not funny!"

The wolverine only seemed to laugh louder and bounce with greater speed and force. There was to be no reasoning with him now. Whimper had been in the Northlands for barely more than a week and most of his time had been spent in the company of the young Prince. While Bork was a good friend (insofar as vermin friendships went anyways) he seemed to enjoy thinking up new and exciting ways to make him suffer.

"Enough!" Whimper hissed, landing on his front. "Stop!" He fell on his back. "Desist!" He cried, falling on his rump. "Mercy!" He screamed, landing face-first upon the mattress.

Bork would probably have stopped eventually, when he got tired of jumping or when, inevitably, one of them landed on the floor. The bed had other ideas. It's front two legs buckled and gave way, tilting the whole thing forwards. Whimper, now catapulted with more force than usual, was thrown against the wall. With a groan he slid towards the floor and rolled onto his back.

Only to scream at the sight of Bork's rapidly-descending form.

"That was the worst wake-up call ever." Whimper grumbled as soon as he had recovered enough to speak.

The wolverine snickered, shoving the bed's legs back in. Thankfully he hadn't broken the wood, just wrenched it out of place. That was the only thing Whimper was thankful for. He could not remember his dream now, though he knew it had been a good dream. His whole form was sore, in part because of the bouncing but mostly because Bork weighed as close to a tonne as was possible.

"Be glad I didn't think of anything clever." Bork shot him a grin. "Next time I just might jump on yew!"

"You already did that!" The ferret snapped.

Bork shrugged. "Ye were being lazy. It's way past breakfast time."

The ferret grumbled in silence now, which meant the matter was dealt with.

"Anyway, how I woke you up doesn't matter. Yer awake now and yer beds fixed again so we can go."

"Go?" Whimper raised an eyebrow.

"Outside!" Bork grinned, taking one of the ferret's arms in one massive paw. "We're building a snowbeast today!" Happily he skipped away, swinging Whimper along, the way one would carry a doll.

* * *

It was freezing cold down in the courtyard, but it was almost always freezing cold in this part of the world. Not that Bork seemed to mind. The wolverine's fur was thick and fluffy, and while the ferret had not sufficiently bulked up for winter, his own fur kept him dry and warm enough.

"You can put me down you know." Said the young ferret bitterly. His arm was sore and aching at the shoulder.

Bork let go at once and Whimper plunged into a particularly deep pile of snow.

The prince, ever an oblivious beast, placed his paws on his hips. "Where should we put it?" Tapping a claw against his chin in deep thought on this most complex of matters, Bork surveyed the grounds. If he put it in the middle somebeast was bound to desecrate it, but he didn't want to leave the snowbeast in any old corner either. "Any ideas Whimper?" He glanced downwards, but did not find Whimper there. Bork spun in a circle. "Whimper?"

A shaking paw shot out of the snow behind him, followed by a second one and a shivering face. It was just his luck that he emerged from the snow just as Bork decided to sit down.

The wolverine prince was annoyed now and huffed as he sat, his arms crossed over his chest. "This is not funny Whimper." They were supposed to be building a snowbeast, not playing hide and seek! "We're supposed te be having fun."

The ferret, grumbling about stupid oblivious princes, managed to pull himself free. It helped that his kind were naturally good at squeezing into and out of places. Rising to his feetpaws and dusting the snow off of him, Whimper was filled with righteous anger. Bork had sat on him! How dare he!

A miniature snowball exploded against the back of the wolverine's head. Bork spun round and found Whimper there, red-faced and scowling.

"What was that for?" The prince demanded.

"For waking me up." The ferret sneezed violently. "For dumping me in snow and for sitting on me! That's what!"

Bork growled. "All I did was wake ye up!"

"Liar." The ferret snapped, crossing his paws over his chest.

"I never sat on yew." Bork shot back, vehemently.

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Without warning Bork grabbed the ferret by the front. Over the sound of Whimper's protests Bork drew his arm back and aimed for the center of the courtyard.

"O-okay B-Bork it's f-f-fine-"

"Wherever ye land." The Prince declared. "Is where we'll build the snowbeast!"

"Bork!" But it was too late, the wolverine's arm shot forwards and the ferret spun through the air. He flew for all of three seconds, screaming the whole time, before he landed head-first in the soft snow. Outside the snow pile his feetpaw kicked at the air ineffectively and his tail waved from side to side in a call for help.

Bork did not take long to find him and easily pulled the ferret free. Gently setting his friend down upon the ground (there was always the risk of losing him if the snow was particularly deep somewhere) the Prince scooped up a pawful of snow and carefully began to shape it into a perfect ball as he began to build.

* * *

"Look at 'em." Said Clogg proudly, watching the pair from a nearby window. "One week in an' they're already inseparable."

Longclaw snorted from the other side of the room. "Give it another week and Bork will have grown bored."

Clogg frowned but did not give voice to his disagreements.

* * *

Whimper frowned at the snow around him. Bork was currently rolling up the first part of the snowbeast, clearing a large path for the ferret to follow in his footsteps. Try as he might the smaller vermin could not stop his mind from drifting away, to the red walls of his dream…

"Well Whimper what do ye think?" Bork finished and stood proudly over the base of the snowbeast, a mostly-round lump of snow.

Whimper, oblivious to where he was going and too deep in thought to be aware of his surroundings, strolled right into the wolverine's backside.

Bork turned around and scowled. "Whimper. I don't think yer taking this seriously." He stopped frowning abruptly as an epiphany hit him. Whimper was a corsair, which meant he had probably never built a snowbeast before! The wolverine decided to go easy on him. "Do ye want te do the next bit?"

Whimper shrugged non-comitally. Bork grinned in delight.

"It's very easy Whimper. Here, repeat after me." Scooping up a generous amount of snow in his paws Bork began to shape it into a ball.

Having nothing better to do, Fret did as he was bid, yet try as he might he could not shape the snow into a ball. Somehow it always crumbled in his paws.

"Yer not doing it right." Bork said with a great shake of his head. He seemed to take delight in playing the teacher. "Ye need to roll the snow up, not squash it." Setting down his ball of snow, the wolverine demonstrated the motion.

Whimper tried to the best of his ability to repeat it, but there was no use. The snow kept crumbling and falling apart. He growled in frustration, so intent upon the snowball that he did not catch sight of Bork smiling at him with a very rare kind of fondness. The smile became a frown when Whimper's badly-formed snowball connected with his nose.

Without another word Bork snatched up a lump of snow, lightly balled it in his fists and hurled it at the ferret. The smaller vermin was knocked flat on his back, smothered under the snow. His feetpaw and the tip of his muzzle stuck out, but from a distance it looked as if Bork was all alone.

Whimper emerged from the blanket of white, scowling. "Build a snowbeast. Pah, you just want to bully me!"

"I do not!" Bork snapped.

"Do too!"

The young wolverine growled and scooped up another lump of snow. A wiser, more cunning beast would have hesitated, realizing that they were proving the ferret right. Bork was neither wise, nor particularly cunning and hurled it with all his might.

The wolverine crossed his paws over his chest and waited for Whimper to clamber out of the snow. The ferret's feetpaw kicked at thin air in a hopeless bid for freedom. When it became apparent that his friend would not be freeing himself anytime soon Bork relented and dug at the snow in search of the smaller vermin.

Whimper came loose without much difficulty and a quick shake was all it took to throw off the stray snowflakes.

"Sorry." Said Bork, setting the ferret down again.

Whimper refused to look at him, and sneezed again. The ferret shivered. "It's cold. I hate snow." To underline this point the ferret kicked at a pile of the white substance. "And I'm going to get sick if we stay out much longer. Can we just go do something inside?"

Bork frowned and stared at his feetpaws. "I suppose… but we already started and I wanted to finish before Spitteeth collects me for lessons."

Whimper looked from the wolverine's pleading face, to the small lump of snow they had started working on. He sighed. "Fine."

"Yay!" Bork threw his paws up in joy and enthusiastically got to work on the next part of the snowbeast. Lifting the large snowball he had made off of the ground he placed it gently upon the base of the snowbeast.

"We just need the arms, a tail and the head." Whimper too, had new-found enthusiasm. Because it was cold and he desperately wanted to go indoors again.

Bork offered the ferret his paw. "Let's go find them then… but first let's get some snacks!"

* * *

The wolverine prince set the ferret down outside the kitchens and entered alone. His father could punish Whimper if he raided the kitchens but Longclaw rarely ever punished Bork. Because Bork was far more cunning than the ferret runt and could get away with anything if he wanted to.

He placed a claw to his lips, silencing the kitchen slaves. Most of them were used to him by now and paid attention to their work. The head cook, a fat ferret by the name of Choptail, had vanished nearly a week ago which meant that the kitchen slaves were more or less unsupervised most of the time. Not that any of them dared to try and escape.

No head cook meant that nobeast could stop Bork either and thieving was easier than ever. All he had to do was ask nicely!

Bork smiled widely at a mole, making sure all his sharp teeth were visible. The woodlander did not hesitate to offer him a freshly-made batch of scones, which Bork graciously accepted.

"Yer majesty?" Of course, no slave was left unsupervised forever and kitchen duties had passed on to the slavemaster Brown-eye. A stoat who, true to his name, had brown eyes.

Bork spun round, his paws full of scones and smiled. "Hello."

The stoat may have been fully grown but Bork was still considerably larger. Awkwardly he twisted the whip in his paws, unsure of what to do. To challenge a hungry wolverine was not a wise move, yet at the same time he couldn't just let the prince get away with thieving…

Other thoughts flashed across the wolverine's mind. Brown-eye himself would make a poor tail for his snowbeast but the whip he carried was perfect! "Can I have that?" The wolverine pointed a claw at the slaver's favourite tool.

"M-me whip?" The slavemaster raised it to eye-level. What on earth did Bork need it for?

"Thanks!" Without waiting for permission (or under the impression he'd gotten it) the wolverine snatched the whip from his paws and made his way past the stoat and towards the doorway. "Ye'll get it back! Don't worry!"

A few slaves snickered briefly before Brown-eye silenced them with a glare. "Just do… Whatever it is yer doin'."

* * *

"Ye can do the honours." Bork smiled handing Whimper the whip.

The ferret knew better than to question where Bork had found it and was secretly glad they were making good progress! The snowbeast was beginning to resemble a rat. That was the whip's fault.

"We could wrap it in a blanket if we want the tail to be fluffy." Whimper suggested with a shrug. "But I suppose we could call it a snowmouse."

"I probably have lessons soon." Bork scowled and selected a scone. He passed another to Whimper.

The ferret chewed thoughtfully, grateful for the warmth of the food. "We could get a shhpear for 'e armshh. Or two shhpears." Whimper swallowed thoughtfully. "Or maybe a trident? Then you'd get the claws." He gave an experimental swipe of his own claws to underline the point.

Bork liked this idea and one stop at the armoury later their snowbeast was nearly finished. A trident and a flail hung from the sides of it's chest, while it's stomach of snow spilled out impressively. All it missed was a suitably angry-looking muzzle.

But the snow was not so easy to shape anymore and crumpled even in Bork's skilled paws.

"Forget it." Whimper complained as the next pawful came to nothing once more. "We can try later."

The wolverine did not like his friend's newfound pessimism and scowled deeply. "I'd have done it that time if ye shut yer mouth."

The ferret gave a grumble of disagreement but decided he didn't want another snowball hurled at him and did not complain again.

Bork growled in frustration as his next ball of snow came to nothing. Spitteeth would be here any minute and the snowbeast was still not finished!

"We should call it a day." The ferret decided, wiping at a snotty nose.

"But it's not finished!" Bork growled and kicked at the snow. "It's supposed te look menacing an' angry! Like father."

"Well it's headless." Whimper frowned at it. "Are there headless demons in hellgates?"

The wolverine shrugged. "How'm I supposed te know?"

"We should just give up." The ferret was shivering and scowling deeply, his teeth chattering. Beneath his fur his face was red. "It's cold! I'm freezing! And who cares about a stupid snowbeast anyway!"

Bork cared very much and took great offence at the insult to his hard work. Before Whimper could complain any more Bork thrust a scone into the ferret's mouth and lifted him above the ground. Whimper gave a muffled cry of alarm before he was thrust up to his neck inside the snowbeast.

"Now yew can be the head." Bork declared, crossing his paws over his chest.

Whimper growled and snarled from around the scone, and it was a testament to the wolverine's snow-working skill that the sculpture did not fall apart from his frantic struggling.

"Shut up Whimper." Bork snapped, sitting down in front of the snowbeast. "An' let me make a real head."

Whimper glared pathetically as the wolverine tried and failed to make another ball of snow. Yet his anger quickly turned to despair when it became clear that Bork would forget about him at this rate. The wolverine was growing more and more frustrated. Just when it seemed he was on the verge of forming something muzzle-like the snow turned to dust and slipped through his claws.

Whimper whimpered, wondering whether or not Bork would remember to bury his skeleton. Wait! That was it! The ferret spat the scone out with unnecessary force. "Bork!"

The wolverine's ears perked up.

"I've got it! We can use one of the skulls for the head!"

Bork's eyes widened in glee and a smile spread across his muzzle. "Good thinking Whimper!" The young prince shot to his feetpaws. Before the ferret could protest Bork sped off into the castle, with speed and agility not often displayed by creatures of his girth.

The ferret sighed and hung his head in defeat… With any luck the whole ordeal would soon be over...

Bork returned a short while later, grinning with the skull of a greatrat. Placing a paw upon the ferret's head he easily pulled the smaller vermin free of the snow. The wolverine adjusted his grip so that he held Whimper by the belly now, giving the ferret a clear view of their finished snowbeast.

It looked quite impressive. The skull grinned in that terrifying way all skulls did. The pale of the bone matched the snow wonderfully. A sudden gust of wind sent it's whip-tail flying around in circles and made the flail swing upon it's chain. The snowrat's trident-claws were sharp and strong, as all claws should be.

"Thank ye Whimper!" Bork squealed excitedly, squeezing the ferret tight against his chest. Despite himself, the smaller vermin smiled (or rather his frown diminished in strength).

The day had been eventful, and most of it had been spent in discomfort, but it was not without reward.

"So can we go inside now?"

* * *

That night, before bed, Bork committed to memory, and to his collection, the events of that day. With ink and brush he drew the ferret, bouncing involuntarily upon his own bed. With quill and crayon he drew his only friend, trying and failing to build his first snowball. And with claw and clay, he replicated the snowbeast.

* * *

_Footnote: A silly little thing that felt vaguely christmas-ey. Bork and Fret (technically Whimper) have a pretty odd friendship all things considered but it's pretty fun. The last paragraph is setting up another drabble of course, because the drabble pile is quite tall. _


End file.
